


Glass and Smoke

by shakespeareishq



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Cannibalism, Dark, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Needles, Object Insertion, Physical Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2014-10-19
Packaged: 2018-02-21 14:43:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2472005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shakespeareishq/pseuds/shakespeareishq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter is a serial killer in prison for life and somehow he and Stiles become penpals.</p>
<p>Then after six years of letters Peter breaks out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Filling my own prompt from tumblr. Some of you have probably seen this over there, but I thought I'd make it ~official~ and stick it here as well.
> 
> Title from the song Spider Wings by The Steel Wheels
> 
> And my math is off I know, but just...try not to focus on that.

Today royally sucked and all Stiles wants to do is go directly to bed.

He flops down without turning on his light and goes to take his shirt off when a voice stops him.

“Stay clothed. We need to leave.” His lights flick on and there stands actually the last person he ever expected in his bedroom.

“HO-ly shit Peter. Warn a guy.”

“But I get off on it, Stiles, as you so like to remind me.” Peter says, and Stiles can hear the smirk despite Peter’s face remaining neutral. His eyes sparkle with mischief for a flash but then he’s all business. “We need to leave.”

“Yeah. So I’ve heard. You know, your voice is different from how you sounded in my head. Where are we going exactly?”

“Don’t be an idiot. They’ve probably bugged your house.”

“Of course, wasn’t thinking.”

“Grab a change of clothes and the three things you think are most important in the world. No electronics. I’ll buy you whatever else you need.”

“With all that money they give you on the lam?” Peter gives him a look. It’s almost displeased; Stiles had better tread carefully. He stands to dump his bag on the bed and starts rummaging in his closet for the most nondescript clothing he owns. He grabs photos of Scott and his father as well and places them more carefully among his other things.

“Don’t worry about the money. In fact, don’t worry about anything anymore Stiles. Let me take care of you, like I promised.”

“Like you promised in chains from behind three solid inches of bulletproof glass, but I get the sentiment.” He gives one last cursory look around his room, then turns to Peter. “I’m ready when you are.”

They leave the house as quietly and quickly as they can. The sheriff and half the FBI is probably only minutes from arriving in the driveway, but they make it to Peter’s beat up sedan and to the main road without incident. Peter hands Stiles a pair of dark glasses and tells him he’ll have to bleach his hair the next time they stop for gas.

“So how tortured are you right now about having to drive this clunker?”

“Unfortunately a  _real_ car would attract too much attention,” Peter replies, stating the obvious without answering Stiles’ question, turning up the radio just loud enough to inhibit conversation. He’s done that non-answer thing more than Stiles would like over the years but what is Stiles going to do about it, exactly? Peter Hale is not a man you confront.

They’re two hours outside of Beacon Hills when Peter deigns to speak again. “Why did you disobey me Stiles?”

“Huh?”

“I asked you to bring the three things you value most. You have two photographs in your bag. So I ask, again, why did you disobey me?”

“Oh that. Um well, I kinda figured that since the third person I value most is sitting next to me I didn’t need to stuff him in my bag…unless that’s a kink you’ve not yet told me about? Because I can work with th—“ Stiles is cut off by Peter leaning over to kiss him for the first time. It’s hardly more than a peck, probably done just to shut him up, and it’s certainly not the big romantic gesture Stiles just  _knows_  Peter had to be planning, but this, seeing Peter so overcome that he loses control for even a second, that’s more precious to Stiles than a thousand romantic gestures, a thousand love letters still sitting in a shoebox at the back of his closet.

He knows the police will go over every one of those letters word by word. He knows they’ll see deep into Peter’s love for Stiles and they’ll call it sick, twisted. They’ll say Peter is going to kill Stiles and eat the body within 48 hours, but Stiles gives himself at least a week. He’s always been an optimist. They’ll see so much, but they’ll  _understand_ nothing. Not one syllable.

Stiles though, Stiles understands everything.

Peter Hale killed and ate 17 boys and young men over the course of five years between 2003 and 2008. He spent another six years in Beacon Hills County Hospital for the Criminally Insane before breaking free on October 13th, 2014. Stiles and Peter, over the course of those second six years, wrote a total of 1,248 letters to one another, two per week like clockwork.

They fell in love two per week, like clockwork.

Each of Peter’s victims fit a profile. Stiles Stilinski fits this profile, perhaps more perfectly than any of Peter’s former toys (victims) has ever fit it.

But Stiles and Peter fell in love.

Stiles does not know if this is enough to keep him alive.

Peter is a fucking mind reader. “You know if you try to leave I’ll have to kill you.”

profilevictimstilesasnumber18buttheyfellinLOVE1248likeclockwork

Stiles just gives Peter a soft laugh and a wry smile. “You promise?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter and Stiles do the do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for slight dubcon (Stiles consents, but technically Peter would have forced him either way) and some general fucked upness that comes with Peter being a cannibalistic serial killer.

They’ve reached the motel by sundown and Peter picks Stiles up and literally hauls him to the room and throws him on the bed, leaving their bags in the car in case they need to make a run for it later.

But for now, they have time.

Peter, bastion of self-control, it turns out is feeling  _wild_.

He falls on Stiles like a man in the desert denied water, like a starving man denied food, like a cannibal denied, well…

He bites at Stiles’ lips and neck and collarbones. He tugs at his now-blond hair, his arms, getting his shirt up and off. He tweaks Stiles nipples until tears threaten to prick at Stiles’ eyes. He’s murmuring something, the same thing over and over, that Stiles at first can’t make out, until he realizes Peter is repeating ‘six years six years six years’ and then Stiles is repeating it too, like a frenzied mantra between them. And then Stiles  _is_  crying, just a little, because fuck, six  _years_  he’s waited for this.

“Wanted you so bad, needed you so bad Peter.”

“You’ve got me baby boy. I’m here now. The whole world can’t rip us apart.” Peter licks his tears away and then Stiles is tasting himself in Peter’s mouth. Peter’s tongue is a hot slick thing and his fingers are so smooth tickling up under Stiles’ armpits, dipping into Stiles’ navel, like he hasn’t worked a day in  _six years_. He follows his fingers with that hot slick tongue, diving into Stiles’ pits and bellybutton, nosing and biting at his underarm hair and his happy trail, eating Stiles out like Stiles just knows he’s gonna do for real soon with the way he talked about it in his letters, talked about how he was going to worship Stiles’ pretty hole with his mouth, fuck him open and wet, smell and taste everything Stiles’ body had to offer. Stiles at the time was a little grossed out but here, with Peter deftly opening his pants and taking out his cock to collect the precome already leaking from Stiles and bring it to his lips to taste yet another flavor, well Stiles isn’t about to say no to anything Peter wants to do to him.

Not that he has the option of saying no—Stiles isn’t stupid—but why would he ever want to turn down what is quickly becoming a full on blowjob from probably the hottest most intelligent most  _dangerous_ person he knows? Anyways the armpit thing was kinda hot. Ok a lot hot. Stiles may have moaned so loudly Peter had to cover his mouth with his hand. They are  _so_ doing that again.

Peter drags Stiles’ underwear down to his knees so he can suck one of Stiles’ balls into his mouth and roll it around in there until it’s lost its sweat-salt-Stiles taste. He lets go with an obscene slurp and goes directly for sucking more precome off the head of Stiles’ cock.

“Oh fuck, Peter  _shit_  do that again”

Peter instantly leaves off Stiles’ poor cock to pinch the skin low on his abdomen and tuts. “The mouth on you.”

Stiles is too horny to care about the potential threat inherent in talking back. “Gonna gag me?” Peter gives him a smile then, not quite reaching his eyes but Stiles takes what he can get.

“Never.”

Stiles grows bolder. “Maybe. Maybe I want you to. Wanna gag on your cock oh fuck  _Peter_.” And that’s the sound of Peter reaching back with spit-slick fingers and circling his entrance and pushing in as far as he can with the two biggest ones before Stiles can brace himself.

Stiles gets his legs hitched up over Peter’s shoulders and his mouth joins his fingers to suck at Stiles’ hole and it’s so much sensation Stiles thinks he’s gonna come and  _then_ Peter finds his prostate.

Stiles blacks out. Just for a few seconds but he actually blacks out. Peter is sucking the come out of his happy trail and Stiles reaches up to feel that a drop or so landed on his goddamn chin.

“Taste yourself,” Peter orders. Stiles does, unflinching, and it’s not something he thinks he can learn to love. Peter laughs at his grimace and kisses him which  _is_ gross, what with where his mouth has just been and Stiles rapidly coming down from his sex high.

Peter’s still gonna fuck him though. Stiles, though post coital, is still not stupid.

Peter slicks his bare cock perfunctorily with lube he must have gotten while Stiles was in the bathroom dyeing his hair and Stiles wonders briefly about a condom. Peter has, after all, had sex with at least 17 other people he confessed to, and who knows how many others, and how much of it was unprotected, but Stiles figures that if he’s going to bed a serial cannibal STDs are not his main priority.

Not when the head of Peter’s cock is pressed to his hole anyways. “I don’t plan to be gentle,” Peter warns half a second before it’s too late to stop anyways, but the pain of the sex is lessened by the pain Stiles feels when Peter bites into his shoulder hard enough to draw blood, which makes Stiles scream and Peter laugh as he laps up his prize like the cat with its proverbial cream. Only it’s Stiles’ blood and Stiles would bet that downstairs he’s bleeding a little too but then in a rush a switch gets flipped in his head and his screams of pain are screams of pleasure and he’s barely cognizant enough to wonder if somehow Peter is  _just that good._ He probably is. The bastard.

Peter’s stamina isn’t much to speak of after six years of no sex (or maybe it wasn’t great before, Stiles knows better than to ask) so it’s not long before Stiles feels hot come slick his insides. Peter is deadly quiet when he orgasms, keeping his eyes open and staring straight through Stiles like he’s made of glass and smoke.

Or maybe Stiles is a mirror and Peter sees only himself.

(But they fell in love.)

Later, Peter goes to the car and brings back an actual fresh rose, no telling where he got it from. This would be the romantic gesture then, Stiles thinks with no small amount of humor. With the way his ass is already dully throbbing he thinks he is owed some humor. Peter pricks his own thumb on a thorn and spreads it across Stiles’ lips like gloss, the blood quickly turning tacky and drying. Peter makes him lick it off, then do the same with his own blood on Peter's lips.

The ritual binds them, or so Peter seems to believe. Stiles wonders if he really just wants to eat bits of Stiles and this is his compromise.

He’s never going to ask in case Peter mistakes it for consent. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter and Stiles go to London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for INCREDIBLY unsafe sex involving object insertion and needles, cannibalism, and outright physical abuse. 
> 
> Peter is evil. This is unhealthy in EVERY way. Please be warned.

Stiles underestimates himself, because they leave the country on day eight and Peter hasn’t killed him yet.

Stiles grimly thinks that maybe Peter just hasn’t found a suitable kitchen in which to cook him, but asking about it would break rule three: Don’t give Peter ideas.

Stiles found he’d needed to come up with The Rules on day four, when running his mouth had gotten him not kissed but punched. Rule four is, in honor of the incident, Don’t ask stupid questions.

So far there are six rules, aside from the mentioned two there’s rules number two and five, which deal with how to avoid the police (Don’t leave evidence and Don’t get homesick). Rule six, added yesterday, is Don’t ask for third helpings of curly fries.

Rule one? Don’t fall out of love.

They touch down in London after Stiles’ first ever plane flight. Peter had a…Stiles hesitates to call Derek a friend. Peter had a  _person_  who hooked them up with passports and enough untraceable cash that Stiles’ eyes went wide and he almost broke rule four twice in one day. (Who’d you have to kill to get those kinds of funds?) Peter immediately went on a shopping spree, buying only the most luxurious clothes and toiletries time and his money could afford.  Even their suitcases were luxury, which Stiles didn’t know was a  _thing_. Peter had always been the consummate man of wealth and taste, at least from what Stiles knew of Peter before his incarceration, and he probably wanted to show off to Stiles just how up to date his sense of style remained after six years of grey jumpsuits and a fucking muzzle.

Stiles had seen the muzzle in pictures. Peter hadn’t worn it until a nurse had approached him to give him medication and he’d taken off half her face and her tongue in under sixty seconds. Stiles knows she’s still alive, that it was mostly Peter’s idea of a joke, but Stiles also knows that if Peter’s desperate enough,  _hungry_ enough, he’ll eat his chosen sustenance raw right off Stiles’ face.

The whole eating people thing, it had only come up a handful of times in their letters, and even then only abstractly, and since their flight from Beacon Hills Peter hasn’t mentioned his darker proclivities. (Like killing 17 boys wasn’t dark enough or something. Actually, Stiles amends, it was 19 but they never found the first and the fifth victims. Something to do with vats of acid. These are just the little things you learn when your serial killer boyfriend is buried balls deep in you and matter-of-factly going over the finer points of how to hide bodies.)

But Peter had seemed, so far, happy with anything from high-end dining to diner burgers and any potential craving for human flesh in either its raw or cooked state was a subject that was, for now, off the table (ha). Peter just seems to want to pamper Stiles and further explore his body right now, still in the honeymoon phase, and Stiles is content to let him.

\--

Stiles has always wanted to go to London. That was something they  _had_ discussed, in great detail. Peter had apparently been a number of times for business both professional and pleasurable, though he’d never killed anyone there to Stiles’ knowledge. Peter knows right away which hotels are the best, and they somehow get the honeymoon suite in one of them without any kind of reservation. It’s plush and lavish and they spend their first jet-lagged hours defiling it.

Peter has proven himself to be overall a gentler lover than their frenzied first time would have suggested. Not that this means Stiles always has a good time, but Peter so far hasn’t brought outright knives or physical violence into the bedroom. He mostly likes taking Stiles apart with his mouth, inch by inch until Stiles is reduced to begging.

Stiles thinks it’s good practice for when he’ll have to beg for his life.

Peter is thorough, patient, and uncompromising about sex. If Peter wants Stiles to come Stiles is going to shoot off on command and if he wants Stiles to suffer then Stiles will end the night hard and frustrated and he won’t dare touch himself. He takes Stiles to his limits and then right past them without so much as a ‘would you kindly’ and Stiles has gotten very good at learning how to please Peter’s every whim.

And Peter gets odd whims. Like with the rose thing, or like the time he taught Stiles about figging. He likes to put things in Stiles and leave them there, make Stiles walk around whichever room they’re staying in with a carrot or a lighter or a fat screwdriver handle or, bizarrely, one of Peter’s socks up his ass. Stiles had always managed to get whatever object it was out again without going to the emergency room, but he was constantly worried that it might come to needing a doctor and then they’d have to risk Peter being spotted or the two of them being separated.

That was before he found out that there were a number of shady doctors, both in the US and in the UK, willing to supply Peter with essentially whatever he wanted for the right price. Turns out what Peter wanted was a syringe, to be filled with Peter’s own blood and injected into Stiles.

The object insertion was new for them, but Stiles had known about Peter’s fascination with needles for years. Known about it ever since he once complained about having to get a cortisone shot from the doctor and Peter responding with a ten page letter detailing the complete history of the syringe, and more importantly what he’d like to do to Stiles with one, how he’d bind them in blood, bind them so Stiles would always carry a little part of Peter with him. Stiles had retaliated with the complete history of circumcision, because he didn’t really know how else to respond, and it remains to date one of his favorite exchanges they’d had. He had reread Peter’s letter at least three times a week, and jacked off more than he cares to admit to the thought of Peter getting literally under his skin.

So Stiles is a little bit fucked up too, but that’s probably why he hasn’t come close to breaking rule one yet.

When Peter brings out the syringe, their first night in London, Stiles nearly faints. Fantasies were one thing, but in the real world needles are pretty scary. He balks at it but Peter acts like he doesn’t even notice Stiles’ presence beyond the inch of skin high on Stiles’ arm he’s methodically rubbing with an alcohol wipe, preparing it for the injection.  

Stiles doesn’t see the needle go into his arm because he’s got his head turned and is squeezing his eyes shut. He doesn’t feel the needle go in either but he does feel the flood of Peter’s blood like a flu shot as Peter depresses the syringe as far as it will go, holding the needle in place in Stiles’ arm far longer than is necessary before carefully sliding it back out. Instead of the cotton ball a doctor would use to stop the bleeding at the injection site, Peter uses his tongue, holding it unmoving against that little drop of blood as time seems to stretch in an eternity around them.

His head snaps up and Peter goes straight to the whole ‘taking Stiles apart’ thing he likes so much, not missing a beat. Stiles has time to wonder before Peter gets his mouth on Stiles’ cock if doing that once was enough for Peter or if he’ll want to do it again the same way he always wants to shove light bulbs and hairbrush handles up into Stiles.

He really wishes Peter would cut that out, but of course Peter is pretty consistent about shoving  _himself_ into Stiles too, which is what Stiles will always like best of all. They fuck on the bed, and on the couch in the sitting area and against the window, cold glass pressed along the line of Stiles’ back and neither of them caring if anyone sees.

Peter’s quick to praise Stiles when he behaves, and quick to punish when he doesn’t. He won't let Stiles know when he’s misbehaving until Stiles gets slapped in the face or, if they’re in public, pinched roughly under the dinner table, but Stiles has always been a fast learner, and he picks up how to detect Peter’s mood through body language and the other nonverbal cues Peter can’t help but broadcast. Stiles is lucky he completely gets off on the danger, and while he recognizes every sign of abuse he just can’t help goading Peter into going one. step. further.

Maybe he has a death wish, maybe it’s Stockholm syndrome. Maybe Stiles doesn’t care. He’s having the time of his life and it has nothing to do with the London tourist experience Peter is in the middle of giving him.

There are, after all, only so many museums one can visit before one’s blood starts to boil. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter four is hopefully when they get to the killing~ 
> 
> Stay tuned.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles' first kill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!!OH MY GOD SO MANY TRIGGER WARNINGS!!!
> 
> This chapter contains the GRAPHIC murder and subsequent cannibalism of a person. I did not fade to black or spare any details. This is your warning.

They’ve made it five whole days in London and Stiles still isn’t dead. But the way Peter’s been watching this one kid dancing in the corner of the club all night suggests that _someone_ is about to be.

He’s about Stiles’ height and build, like all Peter’s other victims were, and he seems completely oblivious to the wolf stalking him in the shadows. There was no prior discussion of how and when Peter might start killing again, but Stiles knew it was only a matter of time. This is the poor kid’s last night on earth and Stiles just hopes he’s enjoying himself.

“Go. Ask him to dance.” Nothing in the reports or Peter’s confession had said anything about him using bait to lure his victims, but Stiles is genuinely curious so he does as he’s told, remembering rules two and four (don’tleaveevidencedon’taskstupidquestions).

The kid—Daniel, but Stiles tries to forget his name as soon as he’s learned it—takes to Stiles immediately. They dance and grind against each other, but it’s Peter’s eyes on them and not the contact that’s doing it for Stiles.

Three songs later, Stiles claims thirst and leads the boy back to where Peter is waiting. He introduces Peter as his boyfriend and tells the kid that they like threesomes. (Peter would never share Stiles in a million years.) Peter presents them both with drinks, the only difference between the two being that Daniel’s is laced with benzos and thirty minutes later, back out on the dance floor with the both of them this time, Daniel starts to stumble.

It’s almost too easy to pretend they’re just taking their drunk friend home to sleep it off, but once poor Daniel passes out in the hotel room the mood shifts on a knife edge and everything is fair game.

“Suck him off Stiles.”

There are enough drugs and alcohol coursing through the kid’s system that he doesn’t get hard despite Stiles’ best efforts, but it’s kind of weirdly hot that way. He’s loose and pliant all over, giving himself entirely to Peter and Stiles’ darkest wills. Well, mostly Peter’s.

The first actual killing instrument Peter gives Stiles is a scalpel. They moved Daniel into the bathtub after Peter watched Stiles state himself on the taste and feel of their victim’s body. Stiles had only been allowed to fuck into his armpit, and he’d been made to lick his own come up from the bed when he was done. He still hated the taste.

He is allowed to choose how and where the first incision is made. Stiles knows that the kindest thing would be to go straight for the throat and put Daniel out of his misery before he inevitably wakes up.

Stiles is not kind.

He slices instead into the palm of the kid’s hand, straight down to bone. Peter tells him to suck the cut and Stiles finds that blood is a flavor with which he takes far less issue than semen. He pushes his tongue inside the wound and really takes a minute to _taste_. He’s dancing on the last border between self-control and outright cannibalism now, and Peter stops him before he gets the courage to bite, coaxing Stiles with gentle hands on his face into taking things slowly.

He runs the injured hand down the boy’s bare chest, leaving an enticing swath of red in its wake which he follows with lips and tongue. The boys flat brown nipples seem like the ideal place to go next, and then Stiles does bite. Not hard enough to break the skin though he does try, but hard enough to leave impressive teeth marks. Peter takes the scalpel from Stiles and follows the indentations with the point, allowing red to well up beneath his touch.

Impressively, Daniel only wakes when Peter cuts his nipple entirely _off_. He’s still pretty out of it, but he can tell that something’s not right when Peter tosses aside the small precision scalpel to bring out the hunting knife. The new blade gleams silver bright in the harsh bathroom lighting; Stiles can almost see his own reflection when Peter makes him kiss it.

Peter then makes quick deep cuts along Daniel’s arms and abdomen and gets Stiles to restrain him when he begins to struggle. He tells stiles to pull out the boy’s tongue, and Peter unceremoniously cuts it out, using it as a gag to muffle the boy’ screams. Stiles almost gags, but he made his bed a long time ago. He’s read the police reports. He knows what comes next.  

Peter’s lost all semblance of control. Daniel is wide eyed and crying, blood all down his arms and chest, pooling between his legs and in the bottom of the tub and smearing over Peter’s once impeccable white t-shirt and tight jeans.

Peter’s head snaps to Stiles, who bodily jerks back. If he’s going to die, he thinks, this would be the moment, where Peter will stab his knife deep into Stiles’ heart, his neck. Instead Peter speaks.

“Do it. I want you to do it.” He presents the knife in flat outstretched palms like he’s giving Stiles a precious sacrifice of blood and Stiles takes it from him, hand moving slowly through the air, mesmerized.

The deed of plunging the knife into his victim’s helpless chest seems to take an eternity, though it couldn’t possibly be more than a few seconds. Peter’s hands cover Stiles’ to push the last inch in, the action reminding Stiles of a grotesque parody of lovemaking. The kid’s final act as a living human is to give Stiles such a look of betrayal, of confusion and hurt and terror, that Stiles starts crying himself. It’s his first kill, and by the way he and Peter used to talk about it Stiles always thought he’d feel powerful, triumphant. He feels hollow and cold, like the hollow cold eyes of the boy (Daniel his name is _Daniel_ ) staring blankly back at him.

Stiles is a monster.

“Would you like a taste?”

noyesnoyesnoyesnoyesnoyesnoyesno _yesyesyes_

He nods, not trusting himself to speak just yet. In for a penny…

Peter heaves the corpse onto its back, seeking out the tender meat along the side of the body’s spine. Daniel isn’t a person anymore he’s merely dead flesh, and Peter wastes no time in butchering him. Stiles is offered a tender dripping morsel that he knows is equivalent to the oyster on a chicken. He closes his eyes and lets Peter’s gentle fingers slide it in, closing his mouth and chewing methodically. The first taste is always the best, Peter had once told him. Stiles means to savor this moment, the moment of his rebirth in Peter’s image. The flavor isn’t quite any meat he can describe, and he allows the bite to sit heavy on his tongue while he catalogues the experience. He swallows, and it makes him feel a little less empty. He wants more.

Peter and Stiles spend the next hour feeding each other small bites of dead boy, Stiles sitting in Peter’s lap, backs against the sink. The death, the killing, Stiles didn’t enjoy that but he thinks this, the feasting, that part he likes. The universe is reduced to the two of them, simple and intimate. Stiles kisses the blood off Peter’s fingers. Peter licks the gore from Stiles’ lips.

Eventually they consume their fill and Peter dumps the mangled corpse onto the bathroom floor so they can run the shower. Stiles remains cradled in Peter’s arms as the older man washes the last traces of blood from Stiles’ hands and massages shampoo into Stiles’ hair. The water gradually runs from pink to clear. They step out of the shower, avoiding the body on the floor, and Peter wrapps Stiles in the biggest towel that didn’t get any blood on it, leaving his own body dripping onto the carpet.

Peter tucks Stiles into bed like Stiles hasn’t had done for him since his mother was alive. Peter probably knows that. He leaves Stiles then, citing needing supplies to clean up the bathroom, and Stiles is too exhausted to determine whether he believes Peter or not. He looks so composed, normal, like it was any other Saturday and he was any other tourist.

Stiles feels wrung out, and falls asleep minutes after Peter turns out the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is 1/4 Exquisite Corpse inspired, 1/4 Hannibal, 1/4 Jeff Dahmer, and 1/4 Saw. 
> 
> If chapter five goes where I think it's going, things are going to get worse.
> 
> (P.S. I love my family and my dogs I am not a serial killer.)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles and Peter spend a quiet afternoon in. Stiles asks a question and things get messy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is my idea of a 'breather' chapter, written to help cleanse my soul from the evil I wrote last chapter.
> 
> It, uh, didn't really end up working out like that. Oops. But hey, nobody dies?

Stiles wakes with the sun high in the sky and the bathroom spotless. He can’t even smell bleach.

For a second he can almost pretend it didn’t happen.

Then Peter opens the door, whistling something happy and carrying a bag from the sandwich shop down the street. He’s as genuine as Stiles has ever seen him, and Peter gives Stiles a wide smile when he notices that Stiles is awake.

“What time did you wake up?”

Stiles yawns and stretches, padding naked from the bathroom over to the kitchenette table. “Just now.”

“It’s after three. You hungry?”

A flash of a body in a bathtub. “I could eat.” Peter reaches over to ruffle Stiles’ hair. Apparently killing makes him paternal. That’s different. “Do we have anywhere to go tonight?”

“Only if you want.”

“Rather stay in.” Peter won’t need to kill again for some time and Stiles finds himself oddly jealous, on some strange level, of Peter’s victims, of how Peter will connect with them in a way he never can with Stiles. Sure, Peter loves him, and he loves Peter, but something Stiles saw in Peter’s eyes as he watched dead Daniel dance has Stiles wanting to keep Peter out of the clubs tonight.

Peter unplugged the television as soon as they’d arrived, so they eat in silence. It’s comfortable, until Stiles goes and opens his big mouth.

“Last night. This morning, whichever. With the uh. With the body. You’re sure it’s gone? At least until the full moon like you used to? I mean, I know this isn’t your first rodeo or anything but I don’t want you to get caught and I don’t want you to think I didn’t have fun or anything but you didn’t like. Keep souvenirs. Or trophies. Did you?”

The police reports had called them trophies, the lengths of bleached white finger bone Peter had strung up like macabre garlands in his basement. No matter when the murder had actually taken place, the bodies were only ever found on full moon nights, missing various body parts (always the fingers, always the heart) and slashed up like an animal had attacked them. It was why the media had dubbed Peter The Werewolf.

Peter’s face goes hard. He doesn’t want to talk about this right now, or possibly at all. “Stiles I told you not to worry.”

“Indulge me? For a minute?”

“How about I _indulge you_ in the bedroom instead and you Stop. Worrying.” Stiles tries to protest. “My fingers itch, Stiles,” Peter warns coolly.

Stiles knows when he’s lost the battle. He’s not sure why he tried fighting. He sighs and gives Peter a long look, which Peter holds with steely eyes until Stiles can’t take it anymore and tears his gaze away. Things had been going so well. Now he has to make it up to Peter.

“You know what? Let’s go out.” Peter likes going out. “Uhhh. Trafalgar Square is one we haven’t done yet? We could walk around there for a while, maybe grab dinner later?”

“You wanted to stay here a minute ago.” Why must Peter make things difficult? Stiles is not about to say ‘well that was before I pissed you off and now I want you happy so you won’t decide to hit me in the face or stab me repeatedly.’

What he says instead is, “This is my vacation and I shouldn’t be a lazy ass. We should get out there and have fun.”

“Vacation?”

“Well it’s not a honeymoon unless we get married.”

“Would you like me to marry you Stiles?” Peter seems sincerely curious.

“Well I mean, no one would recognize it legally I don’t think but…”

“Maybe when you turn eighteen.”

Why would Peter want to wait until—OH.

Stiles, for all that he might get smacked, collapses into belly laughter. It’s ugly and loud and there are tears in his eyes because Peter Hale, ‘The Werewolf of Beacon Hills’ Peter Hale, killer of 20 and counting, wants to wait until Stiles is _legal_. Because otherwise it would be _wrong_.

That is the single funniest thing he’s heard all week.

Peter must understand the joke, and not be offended, because his mouth upturns in the tiniest smile and he huffs a breath through his nose.

He shuts Stiles up with a kiss, and just like that the mood of the day is back to being manageable. They make out for a bit against the refrigerator, Stiles loving the feel of Peter’s clothes against his naked skin.

“Promise me you’ll laugh like that every day for the rest of our lives.”

Stiles grins against Peter’s mouth. “Promise me that in three months you’ll make an honest man of me.”

“Should we invite your father and Scott to the wedding?”

“Only if your daughter can come too.”

“I wouldn’t dare let you and Malia in the same room. You two would raise twelve kinds of hell.”

“And Dad would personally march you to the lethal injection chair.”

Something in Peter’s demeanor shifts abruptly. He presses his forehead into Stiles’ shoulder and grips his arms tight enough to bruise. Uh-oh.

“You can’t leave me Stiles I’ll die. I will. You’re all I have left in the world don’t ever leave me.”

Where is this coming from? “Hey. Hey Peter it’s ok. I’m not going anywhere. It’s ok.” Stiles strokes down Peter’s back like he’s calming a frightened child. “I need you too, you know I do. We’re so codependent it’s scary sometimes.”

He means that last sentence as a joke, to get things back where they were a minute ago, but Peter looks alarmed. “I love you Stiles. I just want you to be happy. I want you to be happy and to not worry about anything and to let me take care of you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. Let me make you happy my sweet boy.”

This is a lie. Peter probably doesn’t think he’s lying but he is. He will always put pain and death first before Stiles’ happiness and Stiles knows that in his soul. Peter may love him, in the most honest way he knows how, but murder is his mistress and their relationship will always be colored by that fact. Stiles feels his heart ache, from how much he wants Peter and how much he can’t have, and in a fit of madness he wishes for Peter to cut the pain out with his knife. If only so that he and Peter can finally experience that last horizon together, if only so that Stiles can finally reach into Peter’s deepest recesses and feel what reaches _back_.

Stiles takes Peter’s hand and leads him to the bed. Peter won’t look at him but that’s ok. He seems…fragile. That scares Stiles much more than the codependency ever will. Peter isn’t supposed to be fragile. He’s supposed to be calm and poised and angry and terrible, like a god. He helps Peter out of his shirt and together on the bed they lie still. Peter keeps taking deep breaths, caught up somewhere in his own head, and Stiles finds he’s able to look at Peter without Peter looking back which is something of a novelty.

He used to study pictures of Peter, mostly his headshot from the backs of his books, romance novels that were entirely unremarkable except for the secret identity of their author, but Stiles liked the court photos too. This though, having Peter so close, Stiles feels like he’s seeing living art. Does he dare touch? All the signs in the museum tell him not to.

He dares.

The instant his fingers brush Peter’s cheek Peter whips his hand up to grab Stiles’ wrist so hard he feels his bones grind together. Any trace of vulnerability he might have had is gone and Stiles is suddenly facing the man from last night, the one who gave him a blade and told him to take a life. Peter’s eyes are wild, unhinged. He flips them so Stiles’ wrists are pinned on either side of his head and Peter’s straddling him.

“I need them Stiles.”

“What? Need what?”

“I need them with me. In me. I eat their flesh because then they’ll never be able to run away and leave me. I can feel them you know, inside. I couldn’t at first but now I can. They’re a part of me. You’re a part of me. I need you with me Stiles.”

Some of that was Brand New Information to Stiles, Peter having before been very secretive about anything touching on the question of ‘why’. Well now Stiles knows definitively. He thinks of other reasons people have had for cannibalism: desperation, ritual, curiosity, distain. He thinks that loneliness might not be such a terrible one.  

Peter switches his grip so both Stiles’ hands are in one of his and reaches down to start stroking Stiles’ cock. It’s up there in the ranks of ‘weirdest sex he’s ever had’ but it’s Peter so Stiles just rolls with it.

Peter only gives Stiles enough prep so as not to tear him and then he’s popping his fly and taking out his cock and fucking him. He’s still out of it, in a way, lacking once more the sharp clarity with which he had spoken minutes earlier. It’s different from their first time, when Peter seemed to be cataloguing each and every one of Stiles’ secrets with his eyes. This is unfocused. He looks at Stiles but he doesn’t seem to _see_ anything. Stiles thinks Peter might be disassociating. He reminds himself to google that later.

Sex with Peter, regardless of the context, is always hot, and Stiles finds it easy to take Peter’s advice to _stop worrying_. He gives in to the sensations coursing through his body from Peter’s touch and lets them build to a head. Even like this Peter tells him when to come, and Stiles obliges prettily enough for Peter’s satisfaction. At least he thinks he does. It’s hard to tell right now.

After, Peter sits on the edge of the bed and shucks his pants onto the floor. Peter is normally meticulous about folding them and putting them away, but it’s like he’s on a bizarro-land autopilot. Stiles is unceremoniously pulled to Peter’s side when he lays them back down on top of the covers. It’s getting cold but Stiles doesn’t complain.

Stiles is a hair away from sleep when Peter speaks. “Don’t bring them up.”

“Huh?”

“The bodies. Don’t talk about them unless I do first. Don’t do that again. I don’t know what will happen if you do.” Peter seems to be acknowledging his own limitations, which is weird in so many ways. “I know you know why I have to punish you sometimes, but I don’t like hurting you Stiles, don’t make me do it anymore.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

It’s a promise Stiles and Peter both know he can’t keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer that I am not trying to portray any specific mental illness, just trying to serve up Peter's general brand of crazy.
> 
> P.S. Check out that snazzy Romeo and Juliet reference. Peter's....episode was also vaguely inspired by Othello's fit that he has in 3.3, though that does not in any way make Stiles Iago. We're gettin' Shakespeare crazy up in this business. Next chapter will be Titus Andronicus LOL 
> 
> (laugh at my jokes please)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


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